Pedicures, Prose, and the Date that Got Away

I had the afternoon off yesterday. After weighing all of the possible pleasures, I found myself up on a pedestal with pants rolled up, feet soaking. I had made it to a long-awaited pedicure.

A young woman who spoke little English worked hard on my feet, which I’m sure were in rougher shape than the other ladies around me. I watched the practiced customers and watched for cues: When did they give the tip? Where did they put the flip flops when they left?

I was supposed to be reveling in this rare, pampered moment, and all I thought about was, when will she be done so I can go write? I had a printed draft and some other materials in my car, and could have kicked myself (if my foot wasn’t being massaged) for not bringing them in with me. But, had I been so clever, I’m not sure I could have written well in that cushy leather chair. I didn’t like this scenario, this stranger laboring over my unpruned feet. I didn’t like that none of the customers talked to the workers, even if there was little English to exchange. It felt like the Twilight Zone. It wasn’t me.

Still, my toes are pretty this morning, nails sweetly rounded, in a glossy cherry red. And I might go back sometime, at least at the start of next summer. But as I sat in that chair (can you believe it has a massage mechanism built in?) I realized that I finally know myself. I know what turns me on, and it’s not salon services, not even a massage chair. I seem to keep falling for the idea that I should be better polished: I spent a lot of money getting my hair colored before I admitted that I preferred my $6.99 box of Clairol. And I spent a couple of hours getting a pedicure when I would have rather sat, unpolished, in the Starbucks down the block, writing up a storm.

I did have some time, when I finally got home, to write on the back deck. I propped my pretty feet up and marked up my latest draft. But I had lost a lot of momentum, and mostly I was just cranky.

My crankiness was compounded when I heard that we had to cancel our anniversary date (a major reason for the pedicure!). The babysitter couldn’t make it. This particular date meant a lot to me, because I was going to actually prepare for it. The usual scenario is that we pick Gavin up together and drop him at my mom’s. I am often still in the clothes I wore that day, or if I change it is in haste. We tend to have to come home right about when we’re unwinding. We smile at each other wryly and say that was nice. But we wish we had more time and energy, more romance.

But this time, in honor of our 16 years and a distant memory of dates where I actually felt sexy, I was going to take a shower, iron my outfit, and dress up with shoes that showcased my sparkly toes. We were going to stay out later than usual. We were going to have Tibetan food.

I thought about our relationship, and how we keep plugging away at making it work. And how, in this phase of our lives, the disappointments (when it comes to romance) seem too plentiful. Work and childcare demands make time alone together, time when we are not exhausted, a rare commodity. I can see how couples drift apart, and the only preventative measure I can see is to keep at it, to pay attention, to (borrowing a phrase from the Long Island Railroad) mind the gap.
As always, art echoes life. I am leaving the honeymoon period behind on this book. I’ve drafted 4 chapters and have some solid ideas for my proposal, and I am just plain tired. I love the writing process, but it is hard work. It is a constant struggle to find the time, and to find new approaches that keep my juices flowing. I’ve had ideas that sputtered and died before, and I want this one to be different. And I feel in my gut that this book will actually happen. But, like my marriage, it’s not going to happen on its own. As someone once sang, I have to keep on keeping on.

It’s a busy Saturday: haircuts, swim lessons, and a kid’s birthday in store. Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and I have Tom’s cards and present at the ready. I’m looking forward to our family time together. Tom’s only requirement is that we go “someplace cool”, as the temperature’s supposed to soar. Maybe we can squeeze in a quick discussion, plans to recapture the date that got away.